cat in shadows
by unknownvirus
Summary: AU: things are a little different this time around... mentally unhinged dark!harry makes a lonely crusade against a seemingly voldemort-controlled world. he has nothing else left.
1. one::

Disclaimer: Do not own, so do not sue.   
  
#C a t. i n. S h a d o w s.   
  
#intro   
  
To begin with, the world was in shambles. 

It was bound to happen sooner or later, but it happened without the presence of Harry Potter. In fact, they thought it would happen **because** of Harry Potter. Their miscalculation turned out to be the biggest mistake they would make. 

Fudge proved him mad, the Minister did. Had reports of psychotic behavior and consorting with Death Eaters. Of course, they brought him to St. Mungo's first. That was when the fits started, when Fudge himself oversaw his interrogation in secret, because the Minister was almost positive that Potter held the key to defeating Voldemort and thereby ensuring Fudge's place in office. The Minister was no better than the lowest of the Death Eaters. 

When they realized Potter had nothing to offer, they shipped him off to Azkaban. By then, society was in a steady state of decline and Voldemort had never had so many supporters. Your best friend, your mailman, the nice witch who greeted you at the local potions' shop -- any one of them could have been a Death Eater, a Dark Wizard, the worst of their kind. 

As for Harry, the torture did bring some startling news to light. Accusations of psychotic tendencies the boy expressed strengthened. He made delirious claims and was sentenced to death. By then, the world needed a scapegoat and Fudge was happy to provide one. 

Fudge died a day after the sentencing of a mysterious heart-related illness. And Harry Potter was buried alive, left to rot with the rest of Azkaban.   
  
#   
  
#one   
  
"The only alternative to sanity is lack thereof," someone had once told me. I remember puzzling that one over for a bit; it's funny how these things come back to you. But here, in the dark and delirious reaches of my cell, it's hard **not** to think about the matter at hand. 

What matter? Sanity, of course. I wonder how much my mind degrades each and every day I spend locked inside this hellhole. My consciousness has lost count of how long I've been here, but my darker half keeps track. A year and a day. Funny numbers, those. A year and a day. It seems longer, then shorter, then longer again -- as if time is not truly constant, but stretches and flexes like some giant ubiquitous rubber band. 

There hasn't been a single minute when I have not questioned myself: am I crazy? Perhaps my obsession with the given query truly proves my insanity. Maybe I am psychotic, as they say. "They" -- the people who imprisoned me here. Jailed me here. 

Buried me alive. 

I'm supposed to be dead; there's no question about it. Dead and gone. They haven't fed me, they haven't given me any water, they haven't allowed me light, for a year and a day. 

They think me dead. They've abandoned this place -- my darker half reminds me of its name. Azkaban. They've left me here, under the strongest wards possible. At fist, I screamed for release, for freedom, for my innocence, until my throat ran raw and red with blood. I pounded the doors, the walls, swore, sobbed, pleaded, and begged. And then I stopped, never to speak an audible word again. They must have thought me dead at that point. 

But I'm not. I wish I were, but I'm not. It's ironic, really -- my desire and that of my captors' is one and the same, yet fate with not grant either. It's the magic in my blood, I suppose. I've been infused with so much of it, it feeds off the power of this heap of rubble. For wizards and fouler things once trod here. Their memory remains, and upon that, my body feasts. 

Now having heard this, you must think me insane. Living without sustenance, feeding off of dreams and nightmares. I wonder what I look like now. Have I grown? I was a child when they took me -- has the single year and day shaped me beyond recognition? I realize there must be changes; my hair must have lengthened to some extent, I may be taller and definitely thinner, and dirty beyond recognition. Yet what I feel goes against that logic. If I run my hand along my face, there is no trace of even stubble. There is no hair brushing against my cheeks; it still remains short, only curling a bit around my ears, like how I left it. I feel sterile. That's the best word for it. Sterile and preserved and still the same. 

My darker half accuses me, of course, you should know this. Who is he? you wonder. Who is this scrap of imagination, this figment of shadow, of my embroiled brain, you ask? He is half the reason why they were able to put me in here. 

No one, not even Dumbledore the all-knowing saint, believed that two souls could inhabit one body. I am a living refute for that fallacy. 

If there were not two of us, who, then, keeps me alive? Who keeps track of the time, when there is no sun or any source of light to give me an idea of night and day? Who continuously tells me not to give in to death? 

He has no name. He has many forms. He has been with me ever since that fateful night in Gordic's Hollow where the Dark Lord came to take me. He has remained with me, a whisper in the back of my mind, a kind voice giving advice, a warning knoll to tell when trouble comes. I have often wondered why Dumbledore lied about how I survived the Killing Curse. How many mothers have given their lives for their children in the past? And none of those children live anyway, making theirs a futile effort. A brave one, perhaps, but still futile. How could Dumbledore think me to believe such an outrageous statement? My darker half has always known the truth, that he was stirred from the depths of my soul in the last minute. We separated; he saved my life. 

Again and again. 

Even now he is whispering, escape, escape. Your time draws short here. You have taken almost all of the magic in this desolate place. Why do you not leave? Yet I know I will continue to cling to this pit of despair until I know the truth. 

Am I crazy?   
  
#   
  
He cuddled close to himself, back against the cold gray stone, knees drawn up to his chest. His clothing was worn and his figure even more so. He was not emaciated, but every haggard breath he took spoke of exhaustion. There wasn't much left here for him to take. He knew that he would have to leave soon. 

How long he stayed there in that position, in the dark confinements, even the stones could not tell. It was more than a week, less than two; the breathing grew more shallow each day, the pain starting out as a faint hum at first, but then blossoming into a fully-fledge roar in the sides of his head. 

He was not alone, and that was comforting. He was not alone and his mind did not linger in the darkness. Over the past year, he had developed a mental retreat, a sanctuary in another plane, to which he could escape when the situation was beyond hope. One day, his other half feared, the mind would decide to leave the body entirely and stay in that fifth dimension forever -- maybe longer. 

It was getting close. He was almost there.   
  
#   
  
Voices, eating him alive, it seemed. 

"I tell you -- right here, in this very spot. His flesh left to rot and his bones left to bleach when the cell collapses over time. A damn creepy place, if you ask me." 

The tone was familiar, yet deeper, and it sent torrents of hatred through his thoughts. He hadn't felt such a raw emotion in a very long time. Unbeknownst to him, the wall directly before him gave a creaking groan, as if pressure by something more than just its burden and the air. 

"What was that? Did you hear it?" 

The second voice, high and nervous, he'd also heard before. "Why did the Master send us to such a place?" It was positively trembling, and the person inside felt another flash of boiling rage. The wall cracked more to the stress. 

"Stop jittering around, Wormtail. Honestly, I don't see why the Master keeps such a fool for a pet." The first voice dripped contempt -- he put a name to it. **Malfoy**. The anger rolled up his spine and funneled itself towards his surroundings. The other warned him to constrain himself. 

It was already too late. Suddenly he was falling, falling back into his own reality, away from his haven, and his surroundings seemed to buckle around him. Light, searing his eyes and senses, pricked through breaks along the stonework, and dust choked his lungs. He coughed, blinked, and rubbed at his eyes. For now, it was better keeping them shut, with the brightness pounding a torn scarlet through his eyelids. 

Although he could not see the two intruders with his eyes squeezed shut, he could feel their magical auras about them, recognize their magical signatures and emotions. First came shock, numbness, then fear. Terror poured from them in waves, battering at him, until he felt himself seize up -- 

Better to not be so emphatic then, the other reminded him wryly. Grudgingly, he toned his desire to know what was going on slip away, and the flood of messages dammed up into only a trickle. He frowned -- there. Into a state of not-knowing. 

It was lucky that the other two were indeed petrified, for it bought him time to recover from his own shock. Gradually, faster than it should have, his vision recovered itself, remaining only a bit blurry at the edges, so it was like viewing the world through a puddle. It was a refreshing change, he thought wryly, to see the sun again, and the clear cerulean sky. 

The little things came back to him again now, like how they'd told him that Azkaban and its immediate surroundings were always dark and overcast, how it never cleared up no matter what. Now that the prison's evil was dead and gone, gone and dead, effaced from this heap of rubble, the weather was fair. 

He felt a thrill of joy for seeing that fair weather. Every breath took in the smell of the lake, the grass that was growing sparsely now amongst the wreckage, and the soft splashes made by the water washing up against the island. It brought a bubbling happiness that wiped away all traces of darkness; even the other seemed less **there**, more like a smudge of a shadow on a clean, white canvas. 

He gave a slow, rich chuckle. He was out. He didn't care if he was crazy, he was **out**. He didn't know how he managed to break the incredibly strong magic put on his restraints, but he was **free**. 

From the looks of Malfoy and Pettigrew, it seemed like they thought he was a ghost. 

Malfoy was the first to recover. A snarl replaced the cowering expression on his face as he whipped out his wand. "I don't know what you are, but you're not Potter! Potter's dead, and so are you!" The words of the Killing Curse slid from his mouth; his target blinked, as if not sure what was happening, then jumped aside as the magic whizzed past him and buckled another of the walls of the destroyed prison. It fell with a crash and more choking white dust. 

The target's eyes widened. "Potter," he had called him. "Potter." How long had it been since he'd been referred to by name? It had been too long. Names carry a special power of their own, and upon hearing one, the owner may do strange things. He shook his head, allowing another peal of laughter to overtake him. Damn, it felt so good to be out and to have a name again! 

And Malfoy directed another curse in his way. His target jumped back again, startled, as if he didn't know why he was being attacked. But he must have, as Draco Malfoy froze when the glinting emerald eyes bored into his own. Even in the bright sunlight they seemed to glow with their own light, hypnotizing him and somehow interfering with his brain's panicked orders for his limbs to move. 

"Malfoy." That single word was spat out, as if it had a particularly foul taste to it. Then the words softened, almost pleading: "Malfoy, what's my first name?" 

Draco was taken aback by the question. He had expected a death threat, not a query. With equal dislike, the blonde Death Eater grated out, "you're not him. You're not Harry Potter." 

Harry. He felt himself almost overcome with wonderment. My name is Harry; that is who I am. I am no longer a psychotic prisoner. My name is Harry -- how long has it been since I've been just Harry? 

Too long, and never again, his other whispered. He ignored the somewhat sad admonition and turned his attention to his assailants. 

Wormtail remained motionless. Whether by guilt or fear, he could not bring himself to attack the one in front of him, the one that looked so much like the best friend he betrayed, the one that had the anger of his beautiful redheaded mother radiating from his stare. And yet, there was a shade that flickered behind the clear crystalline green, suggestive of something else that lingered, deep within the confines of his character. Wormtail shuddered. He didn't pretend understand, and he didn't want to understand. 

He wanted to run like hell. 

Unfortunately, Malfoy and Potter were still glowering at each other. The lack of sunlight had practically bleached the color and vitality out of the prisoner's skin; it looked like marble, smooth with an unhealthy sheen to it. It contrasted sharply with the locks of ebony hair, so that both looked almost as surreal as Potter's eyes. He would be in his sixth year now, if Hogwarts still stood. He was thin, but with a lean quality now, and the muscles that should have decayed long ago were strong. He was not a boy anymore, but not a man either; it showed in the confused line his mouth was set in and his easy, cat-like grace. 

Harry smiled and told his other that he missed his wand. There was a dry suggestion for him summoning it, if it hadn't already been destroyed. Further conversation was cut short as Malfoy broke their staring contest by raining spell upon spell on his adversary. Harry had to leap over the nearest piece of debris in order to avoid the barrage of attacks, spurred on by hatred, speeding his way. 

Malfoy began to feel the fear licking at the edges of his stomach again. This imposter -- but he was not sure that was an imposter -- flowed on his feet, moving with a fluidity that no human his age should have. He was beginning to feel relieved that Potter's wand was still under the care of Lord Voldemort himself when he heard the two words he didn't want to hear: 

"Accio wand!" 

_It's too far_, Draco thought desperately to himself. _And you can't do wandless magic without going insane; everyone knows that_. Then it occurred to him that Potter was put here because he **was** insane in the first place. Everything crumbled after that, and the words for Disapparating stumbled off his lips. In the blink of an eye, he was gone. 

Peter stood in horror as Harry's head peeked over the rock, acknowledging what had just occurred, and then the Death Eater followed suit. There was no way he was going to stay and get killed.   
  
#   
  
He really hadn't expected for it to come, and his darker half laughed at that, suggesting that he didn't need it anyway. But it felt good to have it back in his hand, the conformable weight of dark wood, still gleaming despite the trials it must have gone through. Voldemort most likely used it for an infinite amount of evil purposes, but it still felt good to have it back. 

The pieces were falling into place now. He would have to return to the wizarding community and catch up with the news, but the other claimed that there wasn't much left. 

Funny how they locked him up in case he brought about the demise of the wizarding world, when that very action lead to its collapse. There was no end to the ironies he could find today, it seemed. A grin spread slowly to his face as the other related of his desire to see Sirius. They would be happy to know that he was alive, and grateful too, when the time came. 

There was a lot he thought he would never forgive, but he forgave it all anyway. It was not in his nature to stay brooding, although he did walk the line between the real realm and that of delirium's. There was nothing left to forgive. He had what he'd unconsciously desired for so long, and that was good enough. 

You've gotten softer in the last ten minutes than you have in your entire life, the other chided him, but Harry was too cheerful to care.   
  
# [ I shouldn't be starting a second fic, when I have a first one that is in the coils of writer's block, but I did have some sort of gothic reversion over the weekend and this is the result. It's probably not going to be humor-filled or light-hearted. Really, a dark fic. And, yes, the title is kinda punnish, but I really didn't intend it to be that way. I think it's cool. This /is/ going to be fun to write and to share. So if you actually made it through that, I'd like to extend my admiration for your patience and a request to drop a review. Please review. Really, it means a lot to the author. Anyway, thanks for your time! Later, #nan --edit-- 27.7.04: repost of this in html format and some revising ] 


	2. two::

Disclaimer: Do not own, so do not sue. 

  
#C a t. i n. S h a d o w s.   
#two   


_ I learned today that **he** has a name. _

#

  
  


Lucius Malfoy looked over the broken city of London, and it was beautiful in his eyes. 

Practicing dark magic is an addiction worse than any drug. It usually starts out with experimentation, when the user tries out spells that he believes to be innocuous. As the first stage progresses, the wizard finds himself enjoying the surge of power and the magical "high" that using dark magic can give. He draws further in, thinking himself to be in control, not realizing that the magic itself is beginning to take over. 

Sometimes practitioners retain enough of their minds to realize what is happening before it consumes them. Most of the time, he feels such a constant need for that power that the sorcery consumes him. Eventually, like any dragon chaser shooting up one time too many, the wizard's mind deteriorates till all he sees or feels are splashes of pain against a blackened world. 

Lucius Malfoy had been stronger than most. His dip into the insane world had been a detached one. He held most of his mind in rein, though many Death Eaters below him knew of his strange thought processes. He was not a man to cross, despite the madness frosting his glacial eyes.. 

The pale Death Eater enjoyed his post in this city. From his position the streets and slums spread to the horizon in a barren gray wasteland. He could watch as mothers in rags ducked behind the next snatch of crumbling ruins with equally filthy children, trying to escape the rain. The men had long disappeared, rounded up for menial tasks in a life of enslavement. Most of the young girls and boys had also been taken, though for a different form of employment. 

Lucius's grin was feral as he scrutinized the rubble beneath his office. He'd been stationed with a rather tedious management desk job, but it did grant him a great view. 

A warm breeze floated through the open window, ruffling a few of the papers on his desk. Lucius glared idly at the cloudless blue sky. It really ruined the effect of such a desolate city. What a pity. He would have to do something about it eventually, spoiling the atmosphere like that. Even though spring could not be denied-and how many clear days like this were there in London?-the Death Eater felt that it was giving someone out there happiness and hope. That was unacceptable. 

"Must bend under the will of my master," Lucius muttered softly to himself, fingering his wand. "Must not enjoy themselves like this. **Unacceptable**." 

Only six months ago he would have realized the folly, the strangeness of his words. But the shadow of his craft had well caught up with him now. Over and over he repeated his phrase, punctuated with an occasional "mmmph." 

# 

I knew where I wanted to go. That was a start. 

The problem was now, how the hell do I get there? One does not simply **walk** to London from the remains of Azkaban. My thoughts were at least clear enough to do that, although not nearly as lucid as the water that surrounded me. I could see all the way to the bottom, and it sure as hell was a long way off to the bottom. 

Options. I was never really any good at swimming. I had been dragged to Dudley's lessons a few times, but that was before his blubber had increased to the level that he didn't need to try-he would just float. Quite a while ago. I wondered if he had died of heart attack yet. I should check-- I scowled. When I got off the rock. So swimming was definitely out. Maybe my Firebolt? I mean, if I could Summon a wand from that far off, maybe my broom would come too. 

There was another strange feeling that I was trying to pin down. Malfoy Junior and his despicable ratty sidekick had left something behind on this wave-scoured island. It was a familiar sensation, one that had clung around Sirius when I'd first met him like a cool second cloak. One that stretched back to McGonagall, more subtle than her shrewd gaze. And Scabbers… I could associate it with Scabbers too, though I'd never thought about it before, really. 

Draco and Sirius, Minerva and Wormtail. 

I laughed. How absurd of me not to realize… Though with his lack of will, I wonder how Malfoy became an Animagus. The falcon must have helped the coward when skirmishes got messy. I can feel my lip curl. No better than Pettigrew. 

And scrape scrape scrape from the back of my mind he came, crawling with soundless noise to riffle through my memories like a filing cabinet. He paused for a few moments there, trying to remember something I had forgotten. A vision of Dobby with a wad of Gillyweed suddenly hit me, and the pain that followed was hard to swallow. 

# 

"Two of them, sir." 

Lucius' bloodshot eyes snapped up from his paperwork. He didn't like Goyle's shifty gaze and hesitant tone. 

"Theirs, or ours?" 

Goyle was never a strong man in willpower or character. All of his bulk did nothing to make him feel safe before this crumbling, yet still powerful, madman. "Ou-ours, sir," he stammered, a thin sheen of sweat already decorating his brow. 

"Who did it? Dumbledore's lackeys?" Lucius's voice was bored, drawling, and Goyle quavered. This was his deceptive tone, like a cat with a toy, feigning disinterest till the other slipped-so he could deliver the deathblow. "That old fool's not going to attack a city we hold so tightly. Who was it, eh? A rash and angry young wizard, using the Killing Curse for the first time?" Curled fingers drummed idly on the rich mahogany desk. 

"It wasn't… Avada Kedavra… sir," came the faltering response. The lackey wrung his hands before him, unsure of whether to continue. 

Lucius's expression focused, a hint of an impatient snarl around his lips. "Spit it out, you incompetent moron, before I curse you to the seventh circle of hell!" His winter eyes glimmered with the crazily bloodthirsty light Goyle knew too well. 

"They were, uh, burned, sir," Goyle offered. 

"Burned?" Lucius repeated, raising a brow. His spoke softly, like the breath of the wind brushing against rushes. "Burned? A wizard-a Death Eater, no less?" Skepticism dissolved into viciousness. "Do you take me for an idiot, Goyle? A wizard does not burn to death." Even the half-wit Crabbe could perform the Flame-Freezing charm. 

"Please, sir, I'm telling the truth! Do you want to see the bodies?" _Anything to prevent him from cursing me… who did I get stuck working for such a savage…?_

Lucius looked as though he were going to reply with a scathing insult coupled with a painful "crucio," but instead the rage on his face dissolved into curiosity. He threw back his head all of a sudden and started to laugh maniacally. Wave after wave of insane chuckles sent the hairs prickling up on the back of Goyle's neck. 

"Uh… sir?" 

His eyes were clearer than they had been for months as he said, "Take me to them." 

Goyle and his master left the office and took the elevator down to the first floor. As the doors opened with a satisfying "ding," Lucius could smell something burning. The odor was disgusting and Lucius's nose wrinkled at it, for a moment resembling the late Mrs. Malfoy. The source of the pungent smell was not hard to find. It lay in a disgusting heap of still-smoldering limbs and rolling white eyes when he got there. 

"Sir," one of the younger recruits acknowledged. He was bent over the corpses, inspecting one misshapen head clinically. 

"What happened here?" the blond demanded, eyeing what had once been two Dark wizards. They were so disfigured it was difficult to tell their gender, much less their identity. 

"They were at our front door," the young Death Eater explained, staring dispassionately over the tops of his glasses at his superior. "Whoever killed them conveniently dropped them off, sir. Burned to a crisp, as you can see-one was still screaming as we dragged them inside." 

Lucius frowned. One could not doubt the truth when it collapsed in a mess of charred cadavers in front of them. But the fact remained that no Muggle nor magical fire should be able to take out two Death Eaters. It made the situation even more unnerving. Perhaps they had been stripped of their wands, doused with lighter fluid, then torched? A sick way of doing things-messy, too. Lucius didn't relish being held responsible for this. 

"I want the person who did this tracked down and caught," the blond stated quietly. "Do your best not to kill him; I would like to use him as an example." 

"But sir," Goyle protested, "the wizard could have already App-" he was stopped by a ferocious backhand to his face. Lucius turned on him, eyes ablaze with fresh, irrational fury. 

"When I give an order, Goyle," he spat, "I expect it to be followed, understood?" 

Goyle cowered, his gaze lowered to the floor. 

"Yes, sir." 

# 

The youngest Weasley trembled behind an overturned table, her blue eyes wide with horror. She remained riveted to the scene before her despite her best attempts to tear her gaze away. Death has its own morbid sort of attraction. At least death came on swift wings for them. It was better than most of the others, anyway. These Death Eaters were merciful, in a blackened sense of the word. 

Ginny had been separated from her parents and brothers a while back, during the first of the Hogwarts raids. She had been shoved forcefully into a fireplace by her brother Ron and flooed back to the Burrow. There, she waited for a day and a night, neither sleeping or eating, feeding the green flames and staring in a stupor at the unusual clock on the wall; all of the eight other hands remained fixed at "mortal peril." 

And there they had stayed, while Ginny sobbed, safe at home. 

This killing was more than methodical; it was machine-like. Bodies were riddled all over the floor, providing some grotesque decoration. She had no idea how she'd gotten here. It had been a night and day of continual crying, continual grief, until she had slumped, exhausted, into bed. The next morning, her house was gone, and she found herself in a shack crowded with at least twenty others. 

She recognized some of them as from the Ministry. Families her father had introduced her to during the few staff dinner parties they had. Faces that were no longer there, most of them in pieces by now, or expressions contorted into screams of rage or fear. 

The youngest Weasley was, for once, grateful for being the smallest. Perhaps, if she huddled quietly enough, they would miss her. With this… no wonder the Dark Lord's name instilled such terror. 

Why they had kept her alive, only to kill later- 

Her eyes showed only hard bitterness. 

Sport. Nothing else. 

Ginny's gaze flickered up in a lull from the screams. Most of the bodies were clear now, and the two Death Eaters were visible. One, brandishing his wand, had freckles and a smoky, delighted gaze. The other was a woman with chestnut hair, wearing a satisfied smirk. Both were stained with slaughter. 

_How can people do this?_ Ginny demanded of the corpses. _How can they butcher them like cattle?_ She bit down hard on her lip, shaking and tear-stained. She could not cry, or they would hear. 

There was a sudden scream, and when Ginny peeked from behind the table, she realized it had been ripped from the throat of the female Death Eater. And she was in flames, roiling and thrashing on the ground, her partner bewildered and shouting, trying to put her out with his wand. Water failed to douse the fire, as did a variety of charms and spells. By then it was too late; she gave one more bloodcurdling yell and stayed still for good. 

Ginny thought fervently, _What the hell?_

"Come out!" The man was screeching at the blood-stained walls. "Come out, you murdering bastard!" _Murdering bastard yourself!_ Ginny thought contemptuously. "Come out and fight me!" 

_What the hell,_ Ginny realized, surprising herself with her own bitterness. _This is like some stupid superhero show._

**_Except I'm not a fucking hero._**

Ginny's breath froze. 

#   
5.29.03:: i'm alive! and this entire chapter is here thanks to tristhe, who has also kindly agreed to beta for me. and does an amazing job. and gives me the hairy eyeball to keep going. (i wish i were that talented **and** i was capable of giving someone the hairy eyeball over an email!) 


	3. three::

_disclaimer: don't own, so don't sue._   


#three

  


#

Ginny trembled as she watched as her "hero" stepped through the charred doorframe, hailed by curtains of smoke. And all she could think was, _this can't be happening._

He paid her no attention, walking lazily up the carpet of blood to the remaining Death Eater. The befreckled man grappled vainly for his life as he shot curse after curse at his assailant. They bounced off harmlessly into the walls; Ginny winced as one ricocheted wildly against the edge of her shelter, feeling its heat against her cheeks.

Harry Potter straightened up from his easy stance, his eyes an inextinguishable emerald blaze. His footsteps were a molten trail leading from the ruined doorway. His expression was unbearable, his silence terrifying. 

The Death Eater found himself frozen in place as Harry reached out slowly with one hand for his face and gently covered his eyes. Harry finally spoke, his words stealing up softly like a shadow creeping up a wall.

"You don't deserve to live" was all he said.

The Death Eater then gave out a scream that crawled up Ginny's spine and doused her with a sensation of ice water. He buckled backwards, hands curling up into rigid claws rending at the empty air, body convulsing with seizures. Ginny felt her stomach lurch and rebel as she watched all color drain from the man's skin, leaving waxy white flesh in its place. The yells continued for a few more seconds, then a loud crunch, and the Death Eater's body crumpled limply onto the floor and fell away from Harry's hand. He had snapped his own spine and his life floated away fitfully like a sheet of crumpled paper caught away on the breeze. 

Harry lowered his arm.

  
#   
I could feel the lives being taken through the door; the screams of souls forcibly separated from their bodies battered me when I approached the room. It stank of terror and despair, all touched with the filthy undercurrents of dark magic. It was a sordid miasma of auras I drank in, and it made me sick. I knew the Death Eaters in there were dead already. 

Anger bubbled within me, hot enough to boil rock. Therefore flames were the way to go. I took the stronger one first. Her soul was like swiss cheese, missing chunks that had been eaten away by dark magic and her own malice. Felt it burn away into the lightest of ash. Heard the screams of her partner. Screams of anguish that made me wonder what kind of relationship they shared-Comrades under the name of the Dark Lord? Lovers, maybe? It didn't matter. Neither of them deserved to live.

For killing wizards, the Killing Curse (ha, ha) was the way to go. Except using dark magic makes me nauseous. Tears me up inside-makes me empty my stomach and throw up blood. Thus, my other instructed me of alternate ways of destroying Death Eaters.

Was it murder? Hell yes. Azkaban did a number on me. So I sucked the life and magic out of the other Death Eater, kinda the same way a vampire feeds on its victims. Only sometimes I whistle as I work; I dunno if a vampire can do that while his teeth are buried in someone else's neck.

My father would have wept to see his child now.

…And his body hit the floor, leaving only Ginny shaking behind her table like the last leaf on a tree left to brave Autumn's winds. Seeing her made my throat close up a little. She looked the same.

She drew herself upright-Kudos to her courage-and looked at me. Her eyes sort of told me her story and I realized why she stood before me, all alone. Her sorrow was bitter, very better.

Then, "aren't you dead?" 

I almost smiled. I figured I'd be getting that a lot in the future. My other brushed by softly in the back of my mental storage boxes in amusement. It was a mess in there, and he was nice enough to clean and label everything.

"No," I replied. That sounded funny too. My voice was totally detached from my roiling thoughts and her memories, all stirring together unpleasantly in my head.

My other whispered something that got lost in translation. I caught onto the tail end of the message and hung on for the ride. "More Death Eaters may be coming. We should go."

She had thrown me off track, and now I needed to get out of here and think again.

Ginny nodded, then followed me out of the room with a weariness that saddened me. She looked the same on the outside, but the inside stuff was broke.

  
#   
They looked out from the edge of a mutilated London. 

Harry was troubled. He'd set out to do something there in that Death Eater infested building, but finding Ginny had upset the balance of his mind and-putting it lamely, he forgot. He did know Voldie's rats would open up their windows and throw garbage (among other things) at them if they didn't hurry. Actually, Harry really didn't mind all that action, but the other voice warned that Ginny could become a liability if the situation got rocky. 

Which surprised him:

"Why are we running away?"

He turned to see rage radiating from Ginny's hazel eyes. She looked fairly menacing, almost reminiscent of Mrs. Weasley's appearance when the kindly witch was rampaging about Fred or George or sometimes both. "Why are we running away?" She repeated. He didn't answer; she continued, "there's other prisoners in that building. And are you going to let all of them get away with what they did?"

He offered her a grim smile. "Evidentially you're under the impression that I'm the same Harry Potter. That's about as true as you saying you're the same Ginny Weasley."

"You're leaving them to die?" She sounded incredulous. 

Harry considered, then felt what was left of his tattered Gryffindor-ness die off. He didn't survive Azkaban by being stupid, and Ginny's life on his conscience would only complicate matters. He felt the shift as the other took over momentarily. Compensated for his emotional weakness with an arctic glare, then replied softly, "we can't fight with you under our wing."

"We?" Ginny wrinkled her brow, anger momentarily lost to confusion lost to curiosity. 

"Let's go" was all he said, and turned away. She watched him leave, a lean figure in a black cloak that contrasted sharply against the daytime. He never turned his head back to make sure she was following, but Ginny knew he had other ways of keeping track of her. She considered, then turned and ran back in the direction of the Death Eater's building.

Harry felt her presence begin to shrink, sighed, and followed her back in.

  
#   
"I should have just Stunned you and dragged you back with me," Harry told Ginny, tucked behind the edge of a scorched wall. The Death Eater building was an easy structure to find; it was the only thing standing for miles upon miles around. Everything else was rubble and ruined earth. It was a monolith, a monument to Voldemort and all he stood for. Nothing lived in London outside of that building except for scavenging crows and rats, scraps of black and gray that scurried through the night. 

"But you didn't," she whispered back to him. "So that's what counts."

He ignored her pert reply. "I must be fucking crazy to try this." Then he cocked his head to one side, thinking on something, and decided, "that doesn't count though. I **am** crazy." 

"Then how'd you get in the first time?" the redhead demanded.

"You know, I had a reason for going." He looked confused, green eyes glazed over with something not quite translucent. They peeked through his bangs, fairly glowing at her. "I forgot," he admitted. "We'll remember once we get it." "We?" Ginny asked again, but was ignored as he ducked back, sitting down on the rough ground and musing over something inaudible.

It took him some time to find it again. Ginny began to feel nervous. When he'd first stepped in, he hadn't seemed real. Then his anger was frightening, then his absent-mindedness even more so. Was this the Harry she'd known in school? Of course not, she chided herself. She was drawing up false hopes, thinking maybe everything could be back to what it was at Hogwarts. Happy.

Happy without her family? Bitterness ate her up from the inside. It made her throat feel like someone had poured about a gallon of astringent down it. Closed and ugly.

Harry looked up at her suddenly. His gaze was clear; some of the old spirit was back. "Are you going in with me?" He demanded quietly.

"Yes." She held her chin up. "You try to stop me."

He chuckled slowly. It was a rich sound, and it made her warmer inside. "I wouldn't. Do you have a wand?"

Ginny made a face. "Three guesses."

Undeterred, he persisted, "do you have the remains of your wand?"

She stared. "Yes, actually, but the Unicorn hair disintegrated."

"All I need is the wood," he assured her. "There aren't any fucking trees for miles and I think summoning one would be a little too conspicuous." Ginny pictured a giant oak flying through the air and almost giggled. "Give the scraps to me."

She dug around in her pocket for a few moments, fishing out every last splinter, then deposited them into his open hand. Harry stared at the gleaming fragments and smiled slightly at them as they slowly began to rearrange back into their original form. Then, turning his attention to his own pockets, he rummaged around, finally drawing out a feather that gleamed like molten gold.

_Pheonix feather?_ Ginny wondered. _How'd he get one of those?_

As if he could hear her thoughts, Harry immediately responded, "Fawkes was nice enough to give me a little gift before they locked me up. Kept me warm on cold days. It's almost a year old, so I dunno if it'll work right. Actually-" he laughed abruptly-"I really have no clue what I'm doing, but don't worry. I'll try it out first so you don't get killed." With that, he laid the feather next to the hollow wand in his hand, then gently eased it inside through the wood. The wand shuddered, glowing a little, then relaxed.

The wood was cool and smooth as the wizard took it, giving it an experimental wave and muttering, "_lumos_." The tip blinked dully, pale in the daytime. "Well, we know that's okay," Harry remarked brightly. "_Nox_." Blink, blink, nothing.

Ginny accepted the wand offered to her with a small thanks, then faced the building again. "Thought of a way to break in yet?"

"We remember I walked through the wall," Harry decided. "But we're not sure if you can do it." He thoughtfully unclasped the collar of his heavy cloak and shook it out once; it flew away as a dozen silent ravens, shedding shining jet feathers as they took to the skies. Now unburdened, he stood up, leaning against the cool cement of the wall and stretching. "We think you might as well try it," he told her.

Ginny ignored his sixth or seventh incorrect pronoun usage and agreed, "I'll try. Tell me what to do."

"I think there's a spell for this you can use," Harry mused. He reached deeper inside, pulling out the necessary words. "_In vallum_. Or something like that. Give it a wave and a try on this here wall." He rapped the target with his knuckles and grinned.

The redhead flicked the tip of the wand up to point at the solitary wall and repeated dutifully, "_In vallum_!" It quivered, ripples in the stone spreading outward from the center like a disturbed pool of water. In wonder, Ginny reached out tentatively and poked at the sudden liquid-seeming cement. Her finger disappeared into its surface, then came out again when she withdrew it. 

Harry's grin seemed to be infectious, because now she had one on her face too. "How long does it last?"

"Five minutes tops. Plus we think it's undetectable from the other side."

"What if I end up in a room with Death Eaters?" Ginny wanted to know.

Harry frowned. "I'll go ahead of you. They'll be gone by the time you arrive." The glint in his eyes was chilling.

  
# 


	4. four::

#four   
His head was leaned over to one side in a way that was already familiar to Ginny. She had the distinct impression that he was listening to something, something deeper than the sound of voices and heavier than the passing of thought. His eyes closed momentarily and his features relaxed into a peaceful expression. 

It had been a den of some sort, occupied (from what she could see) by four Death Eaters and one molting owl. Now the furniture was upturned and scorched, and the floor had rivulets running through it, looking as though the linoleum tiling had been melted. The outline of two Death Eaters were starkly visible against the blast lines of one wall. The other two lay in a heap of still-smoking carcasses, piled indifferently against a corner. The owl was still very much alive and trying to sort through its ruffled feathers. 

The vivid gaze reopened, fixing Ginny with amusement. "If you have a question, feel free to ask." 

The redhead gave her surroundings a cursory glance. "I stepped through the wall three seconds after you. What the hell happened?" 

"You worried about Death Eaters. I told you not to. We keep our promises." Harry stretched, suddenly cheerful, as if he were an elementary school student on some field trip. "Let's go see what's in the other room!" 

"Merlin, didn't they fucking **hear** you?" Ginny breathed, taking one last stare at the ruined room before she followed Harry out the door. 

"Don't be silly," he chided her, not turning. "Walls can't listen when you cut off their ears."   
#   
Lucius didn't stand a chance, really. 

His office erupted in a wreath of flames, the door blown apart by such force that it flew through the air and crashed into the window. Glass buckled like a curtain, raining little silver points of light onto the ground below. 

The Death Eater was fast-anyone had to give him that. He had his well-polished wand drawn and trained on the open doorway before the window even shattered. Already his lips were forming the words of the Killing Curse. 

Something large blocked his vision monetarily before it hit him and sent him tumbling to the floor. He looked upwards and nearly choked at the bile that was quickly washing up the back of his throat; It was Goyle Sr., expression twisted in the agony of death and cracked skull still oozing thickly with blood. 

Quickly, Lucius pushed the bulky corpse off of himself. It was like a lead blanket, clumsy and unyielding, but he finally got it to roll on its side when- 

"Hello, Lucius." 

Harry Potter stood before him, a statue carved of marble, flowing black stone for robes and the most intense set of raw beryl for eyes. They seemed almost slitted; shadowed and sinister; they caught his attention and bravery like a net, leaving only the icy streaks of fear already beginning to claw up his stomach. 

Lucius, with an effort, shoved aside his terror. The words whirling in his head like a mantra, came to his mouth in a shout; "_Avada Kedavra_!"

The sickly green light shot towards Harry, the Boy-Who-Lived-But-Died, the ghost of the Ministry from Azkaban. Harry held up a hand and gathered pulsing green that vanished between his fingers. He made a face. 

"Ugh, now I feel sick. We hate Dark Magic and its taste of rotten meat." 

Lucius was in a state of shock. Here **was** a ghost! He had to be! There was no other explanation for it! 

"Ginny?" Harry asked softly. She crept shyly by his side. "This is your call, Ginny." Harry told her. "Do with him what you like, I won't stop you." 

The redhead pulled out her restored wand. She pointed it at Lucius' forehead, her eyes stormy and grim. "Where are they?" She asked. Her voice was deathly quiet. 

"Who?" Lucius sneered, proud to the last. His Malfoy blood boiled in the presence of a Weasley. "Dear Arthur? His wife? The boys, perhaps?" His lips drew up in a snarl. "Kill me and you'll never know." 

"If that's the way it's going to be," Ginny snarled back, equally ferocious. She brandished her wand, twirling it up and around. 

Suddenly Harry was between them, looking thoughtful. 

"We think you'll tell us, Lucius," he said slowly, "whether you like it or not." 

Fear leeched back into those pale eyes, but the Death Eater managed to retain his contemptuous sneer. "You bluff, Potter." 

"Now now," Harry smirked, leaning forwards so Lucius could get the full benefit of his twisted green glare. "Are you really in a position to say that?" A pale hand shot out and wrapped slender fingers around the blonde's neck. 

The Death Eater convulsed. Potter's touch seemed to burn into his skin like a hot iron brand. Something edged its way forcefully into his mind, opening up everything he meant to hide, exposing the secrets he meant to take with him to the grave. He battered at the alien presence in panic, but it was a futile effort. A sparrow might have had better luck felling a tree. He gave a scream of frustration, and in return felt the most pain he'd ever had before in his brief but bloody life. 

Crutacious was a purely physical experience-this pain crew molten tracks across his brain. His nervous system was on fire. He wanted to rip out his own heart and end his misery like never before. This was not Voldemort punishing him. This was not his father abusing him. _Merlin, please let it stop oh god kill me please just **let it stop**…!_

He crumpled backwards, released from the agony. Unlike Crutacious, he experience no aftershakes. Instead, his entire body was numb. He opened his mouth to curse his tormentor, but all that came out was a wet trickle of thick, warm blood. He'd screamed his throat into raw pieces. 

Ginny had felt the first flickers of pity when Lucius turned that terror-filled gaze on her companion. Everything that followed had been one long, endless horror. Now she backed away from the crazy-eyed mess coughing up copious amounts of oozing crimson, and farther way still from the one who'd caused it all. What was Harry, to cause such wonton pain to a fellow human being? 

the wizard turned his head as soon as she'd had those thoughts, sharp green flames glowing from under those dark locks of raven hair. He chuckled slowly. 

"You can run if you want. We won't hurt you." 

Ginny gave the offer some serious thought, then shook her head. "What did you do to him?" 

Harry did that strange lean-his-head-to-one-side motion again. "I reached into his memories and dug out the answer to your question." 

Ginny stared at the blonde's neck. Five red lines ha been scorched into the skin, tattoo-like, by Harry's fingers. "That's not all you did." 

Her one-time friend replied nonchalantly, "it worked." He moved aside. "If you still want to kill him…" 

Ginny looked at him in shock. "After all that? You're a-" She checked herself , but it was too late; the implication had been loosed. But the reaction from Harry was less than satisfactory. He only shrugged at her, then returned his attention to Lucius. 

"You'll give a message to your master for me?" To his credit, Lucius managed to nod his head calmly, though hate was deeply etched in his expression. "Good. Please inform your Dark Lord that his favorite person in the whole wide world is back." Harry's lips drew back in a parody of a smile. He looked dangerous indeed.   
#   
Gordic's Hollow trembled in the pale sunrise. A keening wind cut through the thin clouds, scattering them in the presence of feeble morning light. 

The last free wizarding town in England stirred slowly to wakefulness. Those of the resistance effort who still lived hid here, behind wards and shields and fortified walls. Gordic's Hollow had been transformed from a sleepy country town to the final citadel for the Order of the Phoenix.

Albus Dumbledore made a habit of waking up early each day to inspect the wards. The last attack had rocked the fortifications quite badly, and the old wizard could see the strain on the protective spells. Outside the range of the massive Shield Charm Flitwick renewed each day, the grass was scorched and yellowed from curses and hexes. Yet it was easy to see that Voldemort had again refused to throw the full weight of his forces upon them in his last offensive. Perhaps the name of this quiet place still kept him at bay.

As usual, 7:30 precisely, a grumbling black cloud known as Severus Snape emerged from his small home and joined the one-time Headmaster in his rounds, a mug of steaming coffee in hand. Every day they passed the ruins of the Potter residence, and every day Snape made a point of averting his gaze from the charred skeleton of a house. Perhaps the Potter name was cursed-whether by the Ministry or Voldemort, no one could be certain.

Snape greeted Dumbledore with a customary grunt and a half-salute of raising the chipped mug. "Another fine day of hell," he growled.

"Nonsense," Dumbledore replied, but his words no longer held the old energy and conviction. "The clouds have been blown clear. We are in for a lovely little day."

"Might as well enjoy them as they last," Snape muttered. "What news of Bill Weasley's lonely sojourn to Manchester?"

"Nothing good's come out of that, I'm afraid," Dumbledore replied grimly. "He came back yesterday night, badly injured on the back of a Welsh Green, of all things. He'll make it-barely-but I don't know what good his efforts will do."

"What's the use?" Snape snarled. "It's all the same intelligence anyway-Voldemort enslaving Muggles, Voldemort amassing forces to invade the European mainland, other Ministries of Magic too scared shitless to rise up against him, England operating under the cheerful facade of Umbridge." Here Snape indulged in a particularly convoluted sneer, a tendon in his neck twitching.

"If Ginny is in Manchester as the rumors have said, then Bill's efforts will be worth everything he paid," Dumbledore replied sagaciously, but he was troubled. Always troubled. The people were losing hope, day by day, as if it were being bled out of them. The Hogwarts generation had gathered here with their families, Muggle and Wixarding alike-Weasleys, Grangers, even Creeveys. This was their last refuge before going into hiding. This was their last chance at overthrowing evil and tyranny before sinking into a world of despair… Snape grimaced at Dumbledore's high ideas, brooding: safety from misery and despair? Did he really hope to hold on from here, when even Hogwarts had been lost?

His thoughts were interrupted by the piercing voice of Molly Weasley:

"**Ginny**!"

  
#   
{Author's Notes} first thanks goes to Tristhe, my **amazing** beta. ::Applause:: Okay, personal observations and shit like that: Am probably going to rewrite the first chapter sometime because after like half a year it looks really rough and I'm not really very fond of it anymore. Second, sorry for the slow update. 6 APs going here… kinda a lot of work, not a lot of time. Again, sorry. Third, some things that were bugging me: **Hades' Phoenix**: Eh, yeah. Logic problem. Yeah. Gotta find justification for that somehow. But if you think about it, Ginny was in a position where she really didn't have much choice about **anything**. it was like, trust or die. **Cr1Ms0n^D3v1L **: Opened up my inbox today, saw your review (I guess ff.net mails them now by bot), thought, hey, I probably should get off my lazy ass and get the next chapter up. And ended up writing some more, too! Thanks! 


	5. five::

disclaimer: don't own, don't sue.   
  
#five   
  
It was nothing short of chaos: there seemed to be redheads everywhere, hugging their own and bubbling with ceaseless questions. Ginny, for her part, gave as good as she got, but waited on the answers, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. The racket they made could have roused Father Time himself, if only to pummel the offending noisemakers with his apocalyptical horn. 

As Snape burst onto the scene, he decided only two things could drive the Weasleys into such a frenzy: either someone had died or someone had been saved. The latter, he concluded after a moment of observation, before he was pulled into the thick of it, much to his own chagrin. 

It took a good amount of periwinkle sparks to calm the crowd. When the excitement died down, Dumbledore was standing before Ginny, questions clearly gathering thickly around his tongue. And it became clear enough for Snape to get a glimpse of her-- Merlin, the girl looked positively impish! Old instincts stirred from within, and caution borne from long days of spying began to arise. Perhaps she was under Imperio, or an equally sinister potion, sent here to be the ruin of them all. 

**_You're so fucking cynical, Professor._**

**That** caught Snape off-guard. The voice had brushed against him like a frozen wind on the last of autumn's leaves, and he felt himself growing cold, as though the room's temperature had lowered by a few degrees. 

Maybe he was hallucinating. 

**_'Fraid not, Professor._** Right on cue, and the unknown speaker fell headlong into Snape's simple trap. There was a presence here, maybe a simple ghost or fae, maybe something with darker intentions and Voldemort-oriented. No, it had called him "Professor…" _Just my luck to have vengeful, dead students after me_, he decided. "Dumbledore--" 

Snap. Something clamped down on his nervous system, and he was no longer in control of his own body for a brief, terrifying moment. Something caressed his mind, something light and dark and overwhelmingly powerful. 

**_Ugh. Had a pretty poor time since I left, eh?_**

"Who the hell are you? Show yourself!" 

All the Weasleys and Dumbledore spun to stare at him. Snape stiffened, cursed whatever it was for embarrassing him on top of everything else, and opened his mouth to explain-- 

"Hey." 

Like they were attached to a turntable, everyone about-faced to meet the new voice. Several had wands drawn and pointed at Harry Potter, who was standing dazed by the large grandfather clock. 

He lifted his head, as though noticing them for the first time, and looked past them, eyes unfocused. A shadow lay over them, Snape realized, like a film of oil over water. His features were as keen as a blade of ice, but his eyes dulled them to normalcy. 

**Then** Snape realized, wait, this isn't right. This shouldn't be happening. Potter should be dead. The words spun briefly in his thoughts but he couldn't make sense of them for a moment. Then reality clicked back into place like a key opening a lock and he brandished his wand. 

"You are **not** Potter!" he snarled, and shot a rather malicious curse at the offending individual. 

Potter ducked it. "Professor, I'm not really an imposter." He glanced over at Ginny, frowning. She had a grin on her face that was faintly reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat, or maybe just a mad bobcat. "Dammit, you're not making this easier!" 

"You call that an entrance?" she shot back hotly. "You didn't even do anything **cool**! We all think you're dad and you come back with a 'hey'?" 

"What the hell am I supposed to do?" he asked irritably. "Pull open the skies and smite the sun? If **you** had just agreed to tell them everything, we wouldn't have to go through this…" he turned his attention back to the others, who were still shocked into immobility. "Hi. I'm Harry Potter. And we'd like it very much if you believed us." 

There was a thump as Mrs. Weasley fainted. 

"Ginny…" Dumbledore looked uncertain. "Perhaps you would like to explain?"   
  
#   
  
"Out with it, Potter." 

He made a face. "Professor, we do have a first name." 

"How did you do it?" 

"Do what, Professor?" 

"You know what I mean." 

Harry suddenly found his patience waning. Why did he stick around? Why couldn't he have just dropped Ginny off and be done with it? Ron had tried to jump him and he'd accidentally hexed his former best friend out of reflex. Mrs. Weasley had started crying, blessing the name of Merlin and a half-dozen other long-dead wizards. Fred and George had pinged him with questions. And now Snape was trying to fry him with his glare o'death. 

He suddenly could no longer deal with these people anymore. He could fight and kill Death Eaters. He could survive until the last human on earth was dead. But--Merlin! When did he become so anti-social? It seemed Azkaban wasn't a great place for developing people skills. 

_Give it up,_ he realized. _You know the truth. You don't need anyone else anymore._

Version stirred restlessly at the back of his mind, all coiled anticipation and intent, like a wary hunting cat. Let's go, he suggested. You really don't belong here. Not with people. Others are calling. Remus is calling. Sirius is calling. We have people to free and Death Eaters to hunt. 

Come, taste the blood on the wind. We could get at least a dozen more in by midday. 

"Potter! Are you listening to me?" 

He interrogates like Vernon, his other commented wryly. Come, let me deal with him so we can go. Didn't you hate him once? You can again. 

Snape felt the shift before he saw it, but the clues were very subtle. It was something in the way Potter stood, leaned against the wall, casting multiple shadows from the indoor lamps. It was something in the way the light fell across him-- or didn't. He seemed to grow in stature but not in size, and the air around him stirred. And then he looked up, and Snape took in a harsh breath. 

This was not Potter. He was sure of it. This was some demon that had stolen the boy's skin and draped it around himself as an ill-made cloak. This had cold fury in his sharp-featured face. This had eyes like a cat staring up from the very pits of hell. 

He backed away as those slitted pupils regarded him. The predator in them smiled. "Do you know who I am, Snape?" No, he truly didn't. "Can you guess who I am?" No, he couldn't begin to imagine who this being was--demon, devil, ghost spirit, shadow, dream… nightmare? "Will you stop asking us questions?" All he could do was nod, dumbly… 

And then Harry was back, the veil lifted from his eyes. There was an apologetic look on his face. And Snape wanted to ask so badly, but he didn't dare.   
  
#   
  
They were all outside now, the ones who knew, and the sun blinked in and out of rolling clouds above them. A few birds trilled capricious tunes and the wind whistled over the grass in an equally whimsical countermelody. Gordic's Hollow burned with color, most of it natural. 

Only Snape stood in brooding gloom with his pale complexion and black cloak billowing like a column of smoke in the breeze. He had a mood to match, forced to stand watch over someone he didn't like and was maybe even a little afraid of. 

Said person was stretched out in the grass, peaceful bliss relaxing his usually intense features. 

Ron, under strict orders to keep away from his one-time friend, had listened in earnest to what Dumbledore had to say: "Harry, if he is Harry, is most likely dangerous and in all probability, from what Ginny has told us, completely insane after his ordeal in Azkaban." So the redhead was surprised when Harry opened one eye into a glowing slit at him and said, "come 'ere, Ron," like they were back in the Gryffindor common room and he needed to copy homework. Ron didn't budge an inch; everyone was looking at Harry now. 

"Merlin, Ron, you'd think I was gonna hex you again or something." 

Ron looked away. 

Harry let out a long sigh and said, "alright, Headmaster. Let's get on with the interrogation while my free will still has the attention span. We can't waste too much time here. There are still others to retrieve." 

"Very well, Harry." Dumbledore was always one to take things in stride. Harry levered himself up so he could see his questioner, one hand still buried in the roots of the grass. "Are you really Harry Potter?" 

Harry closed his eyes in lazy contentment, enjoying the cool messages the earth was sending him. "There's no need for that. You can either believe what I tell you or not, because who I am doesn't change the news I bring." 

"Fair enough. What is this news?" Dumbledore's gaze was direct and penetrating, but Harry found it annoying. Too long had this old man manipulated his fate and the fate of those around him against his ever-continuing crusade against Dark Magic. Harry had long since decided to go freelance. He was only here at Ginny's request, and maybe to scare the shit out of Snape too. But now that those wishes were fulfilled, he **really** wanted to leave. 

"Voldemort's headquarters in London has been leveled. Most of the Death Eaters there are dead. Some are not." Sing with us, the plants said, and we'll tell you how to catch the green man who stalks this ground. Harry listened in earnest, concentration on Dumbledore already slipping. The green man grants you wishes if you find him-- one if in the grass, two if in the trees, and three if in the brambles. 

"London? Breached?" Arthur Weasley repeated. "That's impossible! I thought Ginny was making that part up! There are fifty Death Eaters stationed there!" 

Harry looked bored. "Only one now," he commented, staring absently at a random tree. Two wizarding children ran around it, screaming; one had a play-broom that hovered about a two feet off the ground so that when she mounted it, her toes skimmed the grass. Harry felt suddenly depressed. HE wanted his Firebolt. 

"Like the Mongols," Severus was muttering distastefully, but under his breath, for he remembered Harry's new personality and fierceness. "Losing London will deal a severe blow to Voldemort," he reasoned, "but not a devastating one. He'll recover quickly." 

"We should capture the city," Arthur said excitedly. "Make it so he can't take it back." 

"Oh? And how do you plan to do that?" Snape sneered. "With the forces and time that we don't have?" 

"It's better than just **leaving** it there for him to come back to!" Arthur replied ardently. 

"That's not the matter of importance right now," Dumbledore interjected, stopping their dispute. "No, the issue at hand is…" he turned to Harry, who was still focused on the playing children. "The issue at hand is what to do with him." 

"Do?" the boy in question echoed, turning his head a bit over to leer at his one-time mentor. His eyes were glassy with madness. "Do? We didn't come here to have you meddle in our affairs, **Headmaster**. We came to drop off Ginny and enlighten you of the current situation. And, while Gordic's Hollow is rather amusing, we're full. We're leaving." 

Leaving? Version stirred slowly, a lazy cat rising from a nap in the sun. He started making the calculations for the jump. Harry rose, dusting off his clothes. With uncharacteristic affection he looked at the Weasley family and smiled. Then he grabbed a double fistful of the magic inherent to Gordic's Hollow and made the leap. 

Dumbledore's face, as always, betrayed no signs of surprise. He watched as Harry's form flickered, then vanished into a few blue and black butterflies. Harry, on the other hand, was intent on the destination. 

He went a long way.   
  
#   
  
Sirius Black, eh? Is that who I am? 

I like repeating the name. It seems friendly somehow. A useful name; I can murmur it like a prayer or spit it like a curse, and yet it remains the same: Sirius Black. 

No, that's not me. I fool myself. I think of the name and sometimes the image of a laughing, dark-haired fellow-- not me, of course-- swims slowly to surface. I wonder if I knew him, or if he is like Harry. Imaginary. 

I know Harry isn't real because I remember someone like him, only my fractured memories tell me he's older now. Or was that his father? They did look remarkably alike, if I can remember correctly. Harry comes and goes though. The walls and bars and locks of this place can't hold him. That's because he is a dream. His edges are blurry. He is an old memory twisted into a delusion, and I think he is dead. 

I like being a dog sometimes. It's easier for me to think that way, because there's less to think about. Death isn't as near when I'm a dog, but I still hear them talk. 

We're on a list, it seems, to be fed to the Dementors. Yesterday it was a fellow by the name of Gilderoy Lockheart or something like that. Poor bugger. I'm still a ways off on the list, but my time is soon and sure to come. I look forward to it, because then I will be able to see Harry and his father and remember who I am. 

Would you look at that? Harry's come to visit again! Good lad, always knows when I can use some cheering up, even though he's only a hallucination and I'm insane. There's something different about him every time. Sometimes he brings food-- dry crusts, water, a piece of stale meat or moldy cheese if I'm lucky-- and sometimes he sits down to play cards with me, except that there aren't really any cards and he's not really there. 

He didn't bring either this time. His eyes are green and his hair is black. He looks so awfully pale. He used to be tan, I think, from flying and weeding his aunt's garden. Sad that I can remember more about him than I can about myself. 

A shadow flickers behind his eyes. I haven't noticed it before. He extends a hand, I see that it is dripping with blood. 

"Come with me?" he asks. 

I take it.   
  
#   
  
Harry was going to be sick, seeing the state Sirius was in. 

The cell was clearly a place to keep the dead, or the about-to-die. It was horrifically small, about two by two meters in dimension. There were three thick concrete walls and a barred door for the fourth. There were no windows and there was no light. Soiled straw lined one corner and a hole clearly meant for excretement contaminated another. 

Sirius himself took the "skin" out of "skin-and-bones." He was half-naked, shivering convulsively on the straw. His hair was long and densely matted. His skin had an unhealthy sheen to it, lined with swollen blood vessels and dotted with sores and scabs and scars. His eyes were glazed over with a feverish, delirious film, staring at things Harry couldn't and didn't want to see. 

_Look at us,_ Harry thought. _Look at us, and what we used to be._ He began to feel bitterness creep into his heart. Version replaced it with the cold burning fires of vengeance. There was blood on his hands now, and there would sure as hell be a whole lot more by the time he was done. He thought, amused, _does Voldemort even have blood?_

He took Sirius and jumped. 

There were many places that he could have gone. He could have dropped his godfather off at Gordic's Hollow. But there would be no hope of Sirius recovering his sanity there. Harry wasn't even sure if he wanted him to. 

There was a place, Version told him, and it made him laugh to think of it. Therefore, that was where they would go. 

Some parts in England were still lovely and unblighted by civilization or Death Eaters. The Slytherin line obviously had not ended with Salazar, and there was at least one secluded manor that Snake-face didn't know about. Harry grinned. Maybe it even had house-elves. Hermione would kill him for thinking that if she were here. 

It was in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by trees that rose like bristles from the earth. An overgrown estate, covered in wreaths of ivy and barely perceptible to the casual observer after three hundred years of neglect. Like Hogwarts, the only thing that had kept the walls from crumbling and the flora from invading inside was the network of spells Slytherin's ancestors had laid across his home. 

Once he had the place pictured in his mind, Version worked out the corresponding details and made the jump. Even now, Harry didn't know how it worked. He'd flown off Azkaban into London. Only then did Version inform him of an alternative way of getting around. It was older than Apparating, lost as wizards grew feeble-minded and distant from the earth and its wild things. It involved inherent calculation and the ability to solve a puzzle by instinct. 

Harry and Sirius shifted out of space and into being, standing in the main foyer of Slytherin's manor. Harry searched mentally for a house-elf, frowned when he found none, and proceeded to form a mental map of the place. 

He found a floor plan with pretty colors and a tourist's guide. A long walk down one grandly furnished hallway, dark and gloomy, yielded to another on the left, then a finely carved door at the end. The master's bedroom was here; he assumed it would be the one with the best accommodations. 

The Slytherin bedchamber was as extravagant and excessive as the rest of the mansion. It was sprawling, with tall, narrow windows facing south and a ceiling chandelier that could have belonged to Louis XIV. It was difficult to find the bed amidst all the luxury, but once he had Sirius settled down on a mattress the size of a small country, Harry began to address medical needs. 

He pulled out his wand and conjured a modern-day Muggle first-aid kit, then devoted the next hour to personally cleaning Sirius' many injuries and infected sores. Then, well aware that his now-sedated godfather couldn't very well step into a bathtub, Harry used a modified cleaning charm usually reserved for recalcitrant stains. Finally, as he was beginning to stir, Harry drew the rough outline of a laden table in the air, then watched it flesh out into the real thing with a satisfied smile. 

"Harry? Did you bring cards this time?" Sirius asked weakly. "Damn me, they moved me into another cell again. At least they changed the straw…" he went on rambling, blinking rapidly and completely unaware of his surroundings. Harry didn't know what to do. Insane people were ill-equipped to help other insane people. 

"Sirius, look at me." 

Haunted eyes gazed upward, reluctantly. 

"Sirius, you're out. You're free." 

"Go 'way… you're not real." 

"We're as real as you are, Sirius. Look, there's food here if you don't believe me." 

Sirius blinked. Food was good. He reached out with a skeletal hand for a piece of bread. He took a bite, chewing slowly. After about two seconds, something in him snapped and he began to scarf it down, hand reaching out readily for another piece… he was stopped by Harry. 

Was it Harry? Sirius mused. Sure, he looked exactly like Harry, but something didn't fit, like his outer appearance didn't match the person inside. And there was something funny about his eyes too. Fascinated, he leaned slightly forward to get a better look, and froze. His godson's pupils were slitted vertically, like a cat's, almost lost in the endless green of his irises. 

Version grinned, amused. "Meow." 

"Merlin, Harry, what did you do to yourself?" Sirius demanded, backing away. 

Ignoring his godfather's shocked expression, Harry passed him a piece of cheese. "Don't eat so fast; you'll throw it all back up again." 

Sirius began again, "what did you --" and stopped, for Harry's features were normal once more. _Hallucination,_ his mind declared. _Another hallucination._

"You're not hallucinating, actually," Harry told him nonchalantly, peeling a vibrantly red apple. Somehow the feel of the peel falling away from his knife was relaxing. "I'm Harry. You've already met Version. Here." He parted the apple, offering Sirius a slice. 

His godfather wolfed that down too, followed by a cup of water. "Version? You're a sharesoul now?" 

"Is that what you call them?" Harry wondered. "That sounds pretty lame… Version takes care of me. He keeps track of stuff and helps me out with spells and things. My head would be a mess without him." 

Sirius shrugged. He felt like he should feel more concern over Harry's multiple personalities (or was it bipolar disorder?), but he really didn't care. He was healed, fed, warm, and out of hell. It seemed almost rude and ungrateful to worry about his godson now. 

"So… d'you know what's going on?" Harry wanted to know, leaning forward attentively with one hand under his chin, elbow propped up from the table. "I guess they didn't let you guys out much." 

Sirius blinked. "Oh, yeah." He fumbled for something to follow that up with and couldn't find it. Finally, after about a minute's worth of silence, he said, "so we're all gone now, right?" 

"You mean the Order?" Harry quirked a brow. "I thought you knew the Order was doomed from the start… wrong generation, I suppose." He chuckled, suddenly very amused. 

"Is Hogwarts…" 

"Flat," was the response. "Or something like that. Lucky for Dumbledore, Gordic's Hollow still stands. Or sits. Whatever." And so Harry spent the next five minutes filling Sirius in on the state of the world, at least as much as he knew. 

Then the last question was asked: 

"Where were you all this time, Harry?"   
  
#   
  
It took a week and what Harry considered to be a shitload of food to nurse Sirius back to partial stability. The man was, like many things thrown into the war, no longer what he had been. Harry's original intention was to hand him back to Dumbledore (who he considered to be a most gifted zookeeper), but after spending a few days with Sirius, he decided it wasn't going to work out that way after all. 

A lot of the old fire was gone. Sirius was nothing short of shell-shocked. He took the world in too many parts at a time and walked and talked as though in a daze. He still saw things, strange things like monsters crawling up from the deep recesses of time; he visited places too far away for anyone else to find but close enough to cause him ceaseless nightmares. Twice, Harry had tried to negotiate his way through Sirius' mind, and twice he had been blocked or repelled, as easily as a leaf sheds droplets of water after a rainstorm. 

At first Harry had considered the possibility of the presence of another strange power like Version, but that hypothesis was soon dumped. Sirius didn't have something extra in his psyche; rather, he had something **missing**. And as he watched his godfather gaze through objects as if they were made of glass, Harry began to feel the stirrings of a lost emotion in his soul. Pity? 

The house had been good for him, Harry saw. Long walks outside had restored his health. Time seemed to pass differently here, and Harry was sorely tempted to let it all drift away in the sun-drenched gold of the woods or on the dew-beaded rolling lawns in the mornings. But a week was a long time, almost longer than they could afford, and Harry know that staying longer would have dire consequences. 

Sirius always seemed to know more than he let on, but he spoke little and spent most of his time counting the saw-like edges of mulberry leaves or running his fingers over glass and polished wood. At night, he would look to the skies, as though there were something written in the edges of the stars, some bookkeeping meant for him and him alone. 

It was insanity, yes, but a different type of it, though still as powerful and compelling. There was a different light in his eyes now. They were no longer fever-bright but lit by something just as strange. They had become a smoky cornflower blue, and Harry discovered that he could not see their details clearly. 

But he seemed _relatively_ okay now. He was quietly responsive and aware of what happened around him. A newfound peace had settled over him, and he seemed to know when Harry, who didn't really require sleep, left in the evenings in search of Death Eaters or maybe even Voldemort himself. And Sirius recognized the night he meant to go after Remus, because he stayed up watching the moon and did not rest at all.   
  
#   
  
a/n: okay, so that was the repost. i am now done with all six aps, which means i might be able to follow a sane schedule of updating from now on. which means i am going to reread this entire fic so i can figure out where the fuck i am and where i was going to go before school swallowed me, chewed me up quite thoroughly, and spat me back out. 

props to tristhe for the betaing. 


	6. six::

Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.   
  
#Six   
  
Harry didn't like to think that he was totally heartless. Just disillusioned, he coaxed himself into believing. Disillusioned with the hand of cards fate had dealt him (too many fours and not enough jokers), disillusioned with the dreary gray place civilization had become, disillusioned with the honeycomb maze that was Ministry hierarchy, and most of all, disillusioned with the Wizarding World's pathetic excuse for a Dark Lord. 

Honestly, he thought to himself, you'd be under the impression that Voldemort would have caught on by now and made things more fun. 

He sat perched in an old knotted oak, surveying the land that jutted harshly away from him. The sky was a dark tear over a tangle of wild woods. The nearby village had been silenced long ago, and all that remained was rubble. Some of the old Muggle-deflecting wards were still up as far as he could tell, but that was nearly all that remained of Hogwarts. 

He let Version input the landscape and reconstruct the attack. Hogwarts had not fallen out of stupidity or ill preparation. No, it had simply been overpowered by the sheer force of the Death Eaters. Even the magic lent to the very foundation of the castle by the Founders had not been enough to repel Voldemort's assault. 

Harry leapt down lightly from the tree and stalked amongst the stones. The magic was still there, latent but waiting. True to the old arts, it was soaking up as much power as it could from the good earth. He reached down and laid a hand against a cool block. It told him stories of the castle in a quiet but pleasant tone, ending with a polite plea for restoration. 

And here he hesitated. 

If he rebuilt Hogwarts-- then what? Dumbledore and his forces would not be enough to hold the school against another offensive, and Harry didn't want to stay tied down with a constant liability on his hands. No, Hogwarts would have to wait, for certain things had to be taken care of first. 

The Forbidden Forest was as wild and sensitive as ever. The remaining leaves danced on their branches to welcome him, and the wind swept a few off to add to the guiding, cackling carpets. Harry remembered with sudden sadness a unicorn, shining like a pond of moonlight under the dark clouds, its lifeblood slipping away into the forest loam. He remembered a gruff half-giant, the best friend anyone could hope for but no one appreciated, patrolling these woods with a slobbering coward of a dog. He remembered following a trail of spiders out to the nest of-- say, was he still alive? Was he still here? 

He reached out, and it was easy to find the person he was looking for. Or something. 

Remus Lupin had been born under a blighted star-- or so his parents believed. What else could possibly lead to the misfortune of his becoming a werewolf? There was no luck smiling upon his face, no beatific entity assigning him any other future but that of a lycanthrope. 

Lupin had stayed faithful to Hogwarts until the very end, but his curse was his ultimate downfall. One of Voldemort's followers had unearthed a spell, uncast for centuries, that could relegate a werewolf to his transformed state, both mentally and physically, until someone with the appropriate knowledge could block it. 

Harry read all this from the forest, with its soft whispers and haunting, soothing melodies. He could see what had passed with that third and most sensitive eye: how Sirius had been lured in here during the battle by his hatred of his cousin-- how Remus had followed, fearing a trap-- how another Death Eater had leapt out form the undergrowth and Stunned his godfather while Bellatrix Lestrange mouthed foreign words and funneled her magic towards the werewolf… 

And while the two Death Eaters Apparated Sirius away, Remus found his worst nightmare coming true as all control slipped away from his conscious mind and his utterly feral side took over. 

Stupid fucks, Harry thought derisively. Version suggested, if you ever get your hands on that Bellatrix woman... _I'll snap her neck myself,_ Harry promised, his luminous eyes clouding over with something roiling with darkness. Branches bent toward him as he clenched his will and sent out a call, silent and mournful, resonating through every magical fiber of the forest. 

The memories came before Remus did, and Harry was suddenly caught in a tangled web of confusion and fog, half-coherent thoughts struggling against a wilder, more powerful being. Wrapped by tendrils of someone else's being, he relived existence in the Forbidden Forest as Remus had known it-- running down rabbits and filling cold winter air with the heat of blood; skirting around the paths of true wolves, who would snarl and show their fangs in fearful menace whenever he crossed their way; following the trail of an unicorn to find the source of the strange, ethereal scent it left on the leaves. 

An angry growl broke through Harry's convoluted trappings and shattered the dream-memory. The werewolf that was Remus prowled forward, lean and long-bodied, twice the size of any ordinary wolf, with ears folded back against his skull and intelligent, calculating eyes filled with suspicion. His lips were pulled back as far as they would go to expose gleaming, pearl-white fangs. Harry could see the Dark magic practically dripping from them, making his stomach turn in an unpleasant sort of way. 

Remus lunged, and Harry was especially careful to avoid his fangs, leaping upwards into the sanctuary of an ancient Rowan. From his considerable perch, he consulted Version on the undoing of Lupin's preternatural bindings. 

My what big teeth he has, Version commented. Harry blinked; he'd never known that the other had a sense of humor. Even stranger, Version was radiating a strong sense of revulsion towards the werewolf that ranged below them. Harry knew better than to ask-- what do you ask a part of yourself, anyway? 

_It's Dark magic, and it can only be reversed by Dark magic,_ Harry thought sourly. Well, that presented a bit of a problem. He didn't know if he could perform a spell of that magnitude without getting violently sick afterward. _Is there an alternative?_

Version remained oddly quiet, almost as if the being had turned inward, retreated away. _Version? _ Harry probed, frowning. Below him, Remus was still circling the tree like a shark and Harry could almost feel his other shiver with every new loop that Remus rounded.   
  
#   
  
Only a few had been selected to receive the news of Harry's sudden revival. The fact that the one-time savior of the Wizarding World was alive remained a hard one to believe, even to those who saw him in person. Needless to say, not many could be entrusted with the knowledge of this recent development. Dumbledore wisely chose to inform only the innermost members of the Order. Mad-Eye Moody was one of them. 

Stomping along like a peg-legged pirate down the cobbled path to the Weasley residence, the retired Auror mulled over the information in his paranoid but still sharp mind. 

Item one: Potter was alive. 

Item two: Potter was insane, possibly possessed. (Snape had personally testified to a change in appearance, especially to Potter's eyes, when the other "personality" manifested itself.) 

Item three: Potter was responsible, for all practical purposes, for single-handedly taking down Voldemort's bastion in London. 

Moody's weathered face sudden creased into a deranged grin that would have been worthy of the one he was currently analyzing. This was going to be fun. 

Fall had come softly to Gordic's Hollow, arriving in stolen moments of leaves glistening like molten gold through the rain, or the dry crackle of the wind combing through the trees. No one had really noticed her arrival-- no one save the children, who ran screaming in between the shadows and bright grass. They saw something the adults could not hope to grasped and chased after it, though this sort of thing was not meant to be caught. 

Moody's electric blue eye sparked as it followed the small running forms, always in motion. He thought, if they can still enjoy the weather like that, perhaps not all is lost. For a moment, everything was balanced and the world was less chaotic than it might have been. Not everything was perfect, but perhaps the day had dawned with a bit more optimism 

And then he saw it-- something that jolted his nervous sys tem, brain to spine to fingers: a little blonde pig-tailed girl, half-asleep against the wide trunk of a broad oak, a fuzzy snip of a kitten curled in her arms. 

When pulling apart problems, one often finds breakthroughs in the strangest ways. Mad-Eye Moody had just stumbled upon his: the kitten turned to regard his strange shape with one pale, milky blue eye, slitted against the midday sun, and it hit him like half a dozen Stunners. 

There were legends, but research could confirm his hunch, and that kind of extensive perusing was reserved for a certain bushy-haired student who all but lived in a sea of books. His wooden leg tapping out a hollow, staccato beat, Alastor Moody scrambled for Gordic Hollow's makeshift library.   
  
#   
  
"Are you telling me," Hermione Granger said with narrowed, incredulous eyes, "that you think Harry is being _possessed_ by a _cat demon_?" She paused only to close the tome she was currently devouring (_Theory and Application of Advanced Arithmancy_) before continuing, "are there even such things as Cat demons?" 

Moody was surprised. "And they tell me you're well-read." 

Hermione flushed, then stood, clearly not one to remain the focus of someone else's jibes. She turned to the multitude of shelves behind her, going down each row and pulling out several hefty volumes. "All right then, if you think you're onto something… let's hit the books."   
  
#   
  
Harry, Version said suddenly. 

He blinked. The other had never addressed him so directly before. 

Harry, _Haret_, we need to do something about this. We're not meant to be two separate beings. We're not meant to be afraid of people like Remus. 

_We're not meant to be afraid of anything anymore, _Harry agreed, watching the werewolf make his endless circles, ever around, always around. 

If we bring Remus back, we do it together. Are you fearful of this? 

He read the implications and reached deeper within himself than he ever had before, finding the swirl of shadows and thought that was Version. Something in his mind was fuzzy, and their connection was strained, pulled taught between two powerful but unknown needs, fighting to both tear away and join together. Suddenly he was overcome by a fierce desire to see the fog blown away, the jutting shards of his being pieced back together. 

_How can I be fearful of becoming whole once again? _   
  
#   
  
A/N: It's been a while since I've been here, hasn't it? Well, I got rained on by plot bunnies today and I think that's a good thing, even if the results are really rough. I'm not going to say anything else for now because I don't know what I'm going to be able to turn out; it really depends on the state of my rather capricious muse, who comes and goes as she pleases. 

A note: "Haret" is pronounced "Har-ray" and is French for "wildcat," I believe. 

Also, since I really haven't been prowling lately, can someone please fill me in on rule changes? I mean, I read somewhere that author notes weren't allowed anymore but I couldn't even find a list of rules on the website (which has become, might I add, terribly convoluted with all the new changes and procedures that they've stuck up). 

Anyway, thanks for your time and patience, thanks for reading, and, as always, feel free to drop a note or question or concern about the story. Righto. Merry Christmas! 


End file.
